


Look At Me

by Nyvz



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abandonment, Childhood Memories, Dysfunctional Family, Murder, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyvz/pseuds/Nyvz
Summary: Everyone's in Hell for a reason. Alastor will never tell the details of his living life. But his dreams will.





	Look At Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the people on the Bun Squad discord, so thanks all. Giving me head canons.

What an odd feeling.

To feel your heart start beating once more.

He'd fallen from the tire swing in his backyard with a sickening crunch. The pain was worse than anything he'd ever done, even when he'd accidentally touched the wood fire stove and Mama had scolded him for trying to take a nibble at her pie before it was cool. Little Alastor, with wild red hair and big doe eyes, picked himself from the grass, sniffling and holding his arm close to his chest, his heart beating in fear from the fall and adrenaline from the shock. His sniffles got louder as he ran to the house, looking for his Mama for comfort.

He found the kitchen empty, the house devoid of the heat from the oven. He remembered, she'd gone to the shops and the walk down that dirt road was a long one. He'd need to...tell his father. With a gulp, he moved through the kitchen and up the stairs, feeling his feet creak the old steps. Trying to talk to his father was...hard. His nerves were starting to override the pain, but when he considered going back and trying to ignore it till Mama got home, the pain throbbed and reminded him how serious it was. Damn.

He gingerly opened the study door, seeing the familiar outline of his father in his chair, listening to the radio and doing paperwork. He struggled to see his face from the light shining in the window behind his chair, and with tears in his eyes, he looked even more like a menacing shadow or monster. His pen stopped as Alastor entered the room. The boy moved slowly to the side of the chair, looking up at the large man. 

“Father...I fell off the swing and...my arm....” He spoke with a crackle in his voice, looking up to him for comfort. The man didn't even turn his head to look at him, only returned to his writing and gave a snort.

“Fix it then.” The deep voice muttered to the boy, who stared with widened eyes before using his good arm to wipe his face and nod before dejectedly walking out. He spent the rest of his day in immense pain, finding a stick and some rags to try and make a splint with one arm. When his mother returned from the store, she held the poor boy and comforted him, helping him make a proper splint and giving him a sip of whiskey to help the pain and him sleep during the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All at once, he felt his body move, remembering the same racing of his heart as he recited lines into a microphone, mimicking the voices he heard on his father's radio at night. He'd perfected their accents, learned all the big phrases and dreamed of being a radio star. Not singing, though he could certainly carry a tune, but being the announcer and being known throughout the world. He practiced every night, and without fail, would excitedly tell anyone he could about it. 

Never did his father say a thing. He barely ever looked at him when he would attempt his own radio shows. He'd only turn the dial up on his own, the sound of classic music drowning him out. Alastor tried to be louder once. It was the only time his father got up from his chair, grabbing him and throwing him out the door before slamming it shut. After that time, Alastor stopped practicing in front of him. 

~~~~~~~~~

Another shift and it's after he's told that he's got the audition in the bag, that he's the newest radio presenter for their Jazz Hour, and welcome to the studio. He can barely believe it. A lad of 15 now, he'd cut his unruly red hair to a fashionable shorter length, spent what money he had on a red and white suit to make him stand out, and had carefully sculpted his smile into one that made dames fall at their feet and would win him the world. That smile flashed wide as he thanked him sincerely for this opportunity and that he wouldn't let them down. He let himself visit his mother's plot, telling her joyously over his success and replanting her favorite red roses before he returned home to surprise his father. Surely, this had to be a way to get his father to see that he was successful now!

The man, still imposing in these years even as his hair went grey around the edges, said little as Alastor shared with him the news, unable to contain his joy. The way that he narrowed his eyes, holding Alastor's gaze for a moment, was painful enough, but the disgusted sound he made....

“Jazz. Modern garbage.”

His face twitched, his smile still wide. He was having trouble untensing his face and couldn't look disappointed.

“I'm...sorry, Father...I...thought you would be happy.” He couldn't let the voice down, the strain in his throat cracking his voice and tucking his hands behind his back. The man took a long swig of his drink before giving a growling command.

“Get out.”

“Y-yes, Father...” He stepped out, closing the door behind him quietly. He lingered with his back to the door for a while, trying to let the smile fade from his face and the pain from his jaw. 

He'd show him. He'd make him regret it. He'd become famous and make him see him, just to reject him.

~~~~~~~~

He'd done it. He was known everywhere now. He'd become a newscaster for the war effort, getting all kinds of gruesome reports coming in from overseas. He would be the one to share these devastating facts with the people. He would be broadcast everywhere. No one wouldn't know or hang on every word of Alastor.

He'd returned him to his father, finding the man slumped over his desk with a drink in his hand. His head stayed down as he spoke gingerly, smile wider than ever.

“Father, I know you were unhappy with the Jazz Club...b-but now, I'm contributing to the war effort. I'm doing something good, something important. I...I hope this is...to your approval.”

When Alastor spoke...he finally looked up for more than just a moment. His eyes were clouded over, staring carefully at him. Alastor was taken back and felt his skin crawl before a flush of anger rose up in him. This man... this....man...It takes him to be pickled drunk to look at his son? He had to see this, this was something amazing...and this is...what I get?

“Who...are you?” The old man slurred.

~~~~~~~~~

Thump, Thump. Thump.

Racing again. Covered in blood. He picked up the head of his father, rolled across the floor from the force of the axe. His body had been left to pieces, along with that damned radio. Oh, what a joy it had finally been, to finally dispatch these ancient relics together. His fingers moved to roll his father's eyes back to face him and he spoke ever so lovingly to it.

“Father, look at where I've gotten to. You're so proud of me? You regret it all? My goodness, what a change of heart. Too bad though, it seems I've come out ahead.” He gave a laugh, all the while, still smiling.

This was only the beginning. All while maintaining his radio personality and rising further and further to fame, Alastor began to murder, drawn in by the sounds of his victims' radios playing in their houses. He couldn't hear that damned music without remembering. It needed to be stopped. 

Four, five, six people. They began to talk about it throughout the city. Ten people. Fear started to spread. Twenty five. The police were hot on the case. It reached fifty and Alastor felt invincible. But nothing ever felt quite like the first. After his 50th kill, he returned home, covered in ashes from the burning of them in the field, grinning viciously. On the filthy table, a skull cleaned of flesh sat. He lifted the skull, staring into it and seeing his face appear once more. The eyes kept staring closed, inciting rage in him.

“Why...why....why do you still ignore me!? What did you want from me!? Did you even want me!? Say something, you son of a bitch! ANSWER ME! NOTICE ME!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ahhhh!”

He set bolt up in bed, back in his sheets and alone. Looking about, he recognized his own room, his own chosen furnishings, the low flickering light of his fireplace. Ahhh...dreams. Or rather, nightmares. He'd not had one like that in probably centuries. The dreams of his life before that night...disgusting.

His hands reached up to his face, feeling that he'd clenched his teeth so much, he'd broken a few again. Blood dripped from the spots down his face and he gave a tut.

“Damn, I can't start a day like this.” He gave a grip to the broken pieces and painfully pulled them out, a new tooth near immediately growing in to replace it. “There, that's better.” He took a moment and put his hand over his chest. Rather than hearing a heartbeat, there was a hollow sensation and it brought him comfort. Everything was as it should be. 

No, wait...not everything. 

He got up from his bedside, taking in a deep breath before he let out a deafening noise that most demons could not hear, but as the sound waves traveled out from his abode, windows began to tremble and any electronics sputtered into a noise that could only be described as horrifying, as though a choir of rabid wolves were being slain by the bows of violins against the strings and leeching into the music itself. Those near to the sound found themselves in nerve wracking pain, like their organs were twisting in on themselves. 

All at once, it stopped. He sighed gently, settling himself back down into bed and feeling relieved, sheets wrapped about him and letting the hollow hole inside him whisper and make him forget his living memories.

But, he never would. After all, this was Hell and each sinner was meant to be tortured, one way or another.


End file.
